A Perfect Ending
by Elwyn the PlushieHead
Summary: Every story has to have an ending, and Mort had found that...in one of his stories. ::Secret Window Fic:: What happens when he begins to write his own ending?CHP2 Dedicated to Cindy
1. Musings

Mort Rainey knew that every book had to have a perfect ending, and he had found one, in at least one of his stories. However, one story, his own story, seemed to be stuck in that gray area before completion; it wasn't white, or black, it was undecided. He knew it had to have an ending, but finding where one chapter stopped and another began was a difficult sort of thing. Call it a feeling, but somehow Mort felt that the events of a few months ago were merely the ending of a chapter, like there was more, ready for him if he should pick up the pen.  
  
One last time.  
  
As he pulled himself out of his ocean of thoughts, Mort ran a brush for what seemed to be the millionth time through his hair. Ah, but who was counting? Not me, he answered himself, grinning at this, and revealing perfectly straitened teeth to the mirror, which had been replaced. His appearance had much improved since the unfortunate ending of Amy Rainey, although he found himself forgetting more and more often of how exactly it happened. He knew he had done it, and so did the police, but they couldn't figure it out. And it was because of that, he was still in his cabin, and not in a jail cell, or possibly, lying underneath the ground. He removed his glasses and ran some water over the lenses, drying them with the blue and white checkered sweater he was wearing. He had become much more orderly, preferring to look sharp, as the cops had taken to dropping by for visits more and more frequently as of late. Checking his appearance once more, he walked out of the bedroom, and took a seat at the desk, where his laptop sat with word processing ready for him. The desk itself was neat and tidy, the drawers organized to extreme lengths, and the only things taking up residency on the top, besides the computer, were the few pens, and a plate of two eaten ears of corn. The laptop had been placed directly in the center, so to hide the carving of the word "Shooter" into the wood. He stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink repeatedly at the top of the document, which had remained blank these past weeks. It had rhythm, like the ticking of a clock, or the perpetual drip of water from the sink downstairs.  
  
What to write...  
  
Every story follows a basic pattern. You have the set up of plot, the crescendo to whatever dramatic event is written in, and then the gradual, but inevitable end. As he thought about this, a new idea began to form. Maybe the Window was his tale, and it had ended with "...even to him." and that he would live the rest of his life peacefully. Mort leaned back, crossing his arms, and frowning slightly.  
  
No, no no, that couldn't be right, he argued with himself. That form doesn't, no, can't end in the middle of a book. It spans throughout. Therefore, he had to write the ending of his story, and he had to make it interesting. Sighing, he stood up, and grabbing the plate, walked down the stairs to the kitchen. As he tossed the remains of the previous night's dinner in the trash, he helped himself to another ear, which had already cooked. His kitchen counters were covered in corn, the husks still intact. It had become almost an obsession with him now and it was basically his diet, not that he minded. As he poured the steaming water from the pot into the sink, and proceeded to sprinkle some salt onto his lunch, his mind wandered once again on an ending. Taking a bite, he sincerely wished Shooter could have been here to help him.  
  
He had, after all, written such a beautiful ending. 


	2. Conversations

A/N- This was originally supposed to continue, and I am sorry for the delay. My only drafts of the 2nd and upcoming 3rd chapters were taken. So, someone actually "Stole my story." Now that's ironic. I would like to make a formal dedication of this story to Cindy Chen- keep smilin', girl!  
  
By the way, this chapter involves Mort's conversations with himself. Just so you know and don't get too confused.   
  
Mort Rainey stared blankly at the computer screen, fingering a slinky.  
  
Normally this would have been okay; after all, sometimes words did not come as easily to him as he would have hoped. Unfortunately, this day marked one and a half months of day in, day out staring and not writing.  
  
Damn, but writer's block could be a bitch, he mused.  
  
Sighing and reclining, he surveyed the desktop. Nothing new.  
  
Not that there would be, but who could tell for sure? When you drop a stone, it'll fall to the floor, but there is always that chance that it might float to the ceiling.  
  
Grinning at this proverb, it was slowly erased as he caught his eye on the blinking cursor.  
  
What's wring, Mort? Having trouble writing the ending? Said a voice in one of the many hallways of his mind.  
  
Yep. It's like this every day. I need to finish it, he answered.  
  
An insatiable hunger, the voice agreed.  
  
That's exactly it. Since when have you become so eloquent?  
  
Since you began reading all those books. You remember, don't you Mort? You never read Amy's favorite storied until she disappeared.  
  
He did remember. He remembered Amy, and their wedding day, and the time she had cried because he had ignored her for weeks, finishing a story. . . Tsk tsk, said the voice again. Letting your mind wander?  
  
What else am I going to do?  
  
You could ask him for help.  
  
Who?  
  
Look.  
  
Mort looked at the computer screen, and saw that one word had been written, the cursor blinking just after the "r".  
  
Shooter.  
  
He's not here, though, Mort though bitterly.  
  
He could be. He'd help you, you know that.  
  
He mulled this idea over in his head, worrying his bottom lip.  
  
After all, Shooter had written an ending to his short story that far surpassed his own.  
  
He stood up, his decision made. Walking swiftly to his bedroom, he opened the closet door, not bothering to put on a light.  
  
Where was that hatbox?  
  
In the near darkness, it had taken him seven minutes to find what he was looking for.  
  
As he put the familiar looking black hat on, he turned to glance in the bedside mirror, a crooked grin playing across his face.  
  
"My, but that hat does become you." The words came out in a slow, southern drawl.  
  
Thank you very much, Mr. Shooter. Perhaps we can start off on better terms? Mort thought hopefully.  
  
Perhaps, Shooter answered, nodding once.  
  
Late September and risen spectacularly to the occasion, the vibrant golds, reds and browns in brilliant contrast to the lake. Autumn was here, and as a cool wind rustled the leaves around Dave Newsome, it was apparent that it wanted to make itself known.  
  
The sky was overcast, and the clouds were darkening. Dave shifted uncomfortably as he looked around, then made up his mind, rapping sharply on the door.  
  
There was no response.  
  
"Mort?" He called in, pausing again before knocking. "Mort, it's Dave. Can I talk to you for a minute?"  
  
Still no answer.  
  
"Mort, your car is here, so I know your in. Can I talk to you? It'll only- " He was cut short when the door swung open to reveal a cheerful Mort.  
  
"Oh, Dave! Good to see you!"  
  
Dave nodded, forcing a smile.  
  
"How is you needlework going?"  
  
"Uh, fine. Thank you." There was a pause in which both looked at each other, Mort still smiling obliviously.  
  
"Could I, uh, come in for a moment, if you don't mind?"  
  
"Oh, sure." He opened the door, and let Dave in.  
  
"You want something to eat? I've got some corn in the kitchen."  
  
"No, thank you."  
  
"Are you sure? It's quite good."  
  
"No, I'm fine." Mort shrugged and disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
"Hey, Mort. I have a friend I'd like you too meet in town."  
  
The man's head reappeared. "Oh?"  
  
"Yes. I was hoping you'd ride with me into town."  
  
Keep your voice steady, he thought as he spoke.  
  
"Sure. Let me put on some shoes."  
  
It's almost over, Dave thought.  
  
Almost over. . . 


End file.
